The other night Jill and I had an opportunity to chat at length. It was a treat. The three hour time difference isn’t always on our side, and often we settle for a few minutes of conversation when she’s commuting home (if I’m not in bed yet). I shared with Jill an embarrassing moment, and we laughed so hard it hurt. We could hardly understand each other when we tried to speak through the wheezes. When we finally calmed down she said, “You have to blog about that!” I told her I would, but only because I could to take her down with me, so to speak, since she had a similarly mortifying moment. I guess we’ll call it a blogable moment, akin to the “bookworthy” details Amy identifies in the emails I send to her, things I say that make her laugh or are over-the-top b*tchy, sometimes both. She’ll reply “that’s bookworthy,” and I write it down. So without further adieu…
I told Jill that I had been to a party, where I knew hardly anyone besides my friend, the host, but enjoyed myself nonetheless. I was glad I went despite the fact that toward the end of the party, when just a few of us remained, sitting at high bar stools around the breakfast bar, I looked down at my shoe, and there was my panty liner.
Yep. Not toilet paper. My panty liner was stuck to the bottom of my shoe, and had been apparently for some time, since I had ventured outside after my trip to the loo, which I imagine is the moment my panty liner decided to escape from the cotton crotch of my granny panties and take a walk around Mo’s kitchen.
Oh my God! Had anyone seen it? And not said anything? Please, doesn’t a stray panty liner fall in the spectrum of spinach stuck in your teeth or the swinging snot in the nose? To tell or not to tell? Tell the poor woman. (In this case, me.) Or maybe I—like my panty liner—had actually escaped without notice before the moment I casually crossed my legs, detached the stray feminine hygiene product (FHP) from my shoe and tucked it in my pocket for appropriate disposal.
I welcome you to share similar FHP nightmares, like Jill’s—when she went to the bathroom at work only to find her panty liner missing. Nowhere to be found. MIA. Not stuck in her stockings, since she wasn’t wearing stockings, not stuck on her shoe.
For now, I think I win. And men? Well, they have it made.